


Hunker Down Together

by PrincessDianaArtemis



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Based on our Anniversary Gift, COVID Lockdown, Everyone's doing it and I have to join in, Good Omens 30th Anniversary, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lockdown Fic, M/M, Pestilence mentioned, Post-Armageddon, quarentine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessDianaArtemis/pseuds/PrincessDianaArtemis
Summary: What happened after the phone conversation between Aziraphale and Crowley? What was going on through their heads? Will they get what they really want after all?AKA I've had this since I heard the Lockdown conversation and what better day to share a new story then on the anniversary of the book.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 88





	Hunker Down Together

**A Minimalistic Flat in Mayfair, COVID Lockdown, London 2020**

He hung up and sat there for a second before the weight of the conversation came crashing down on him.

“Fuck,” Crowley said, soft. Then jumped to his feet, starting a winding pace around his office, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The volume of his embarrassment growing louder and louder as he continued to chant around his desk, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling at the strands in his desperation to take back his words.

“What wasssss _that_?” said Crowley, forked tongue flitting out as the agitation turned serpentine, “ I could ssssslither over and watch you eat cake? Might as well have said, “Oi, Angel, let me get off watching you enjoy the ssssssugar melting in your mouth.’ _Fuck!”_

With a snap of his fingers, he changed his outfit from the sleek suit he’d thought up, something that was casual but bordered on indecent—at least to the Victorian standards of the angel, to his silk pajamas. He’d imagined himself being invited over to the warm bookshop where he’d be basking in the angelic glow of his counterpart for the remainder of this wretched lockdown.

He should’ve known better.

“Sssstupid ssssnake,” he hissed, quiet and self-hating, “It’ssss too fast, he’ssss still adjusting.”

Crowley slipped his glasses off, dropping them on the desk and then reaching out for his cell phone. His fingers hesitated right above the dark screen. A second passed, then with a sigh, he scooped it up and took it with him.

He slithered through his flat with a dejected slump in his shoulder.

One stop to his plants to threaten that if they wilted in the following two months, he’d make sure they never see the light again—much like him. Then, leaving them well shaken, he finished his trail to his room.

It felt emptier, lonelier than he remembered it being. These walls held the memory of lying next to Aziraphale, exhausted after a long day stopping Armageddon and after having washed away the ashes of the Bentley, he’d crawled into the sheets while Aziraphale had stayed in the living room, fretting about the swap. And as he tossed and turned, the door opened and light flooded over him as the angel fidgeted in the doorway.

“What is it, angel?”

“I—would it be too much to ask—I mean, if it’s not a bother—”

“Zira—”

“Could I lay with you? I don’t think I’ll sleep, but I don’t think I could stay alone your—it’s quite empty, my dear.”

Present Crowley could remember how his tiredness melted from his bones as heat ran through his bones and with a dry-mouth, he nodded, waiting until Aziraphale appeared at the other side of his bed, his own pair of pajamas tartan from toe to the tip of his ridiculous nightcap. The dip of the bed as the angel slid onto the mattress and settled his back against the headboard.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, Aziraphale.”

A long pause before, “Nothing, my dear. Good night. We’ll need to be rested for tomorrow.”

But that felt like so long ago and nothing more than a dream than a memory. It was clear that Aziraphale was managing this lockdown well enough on his own and didn’t want a needy serpent at heel.

He sighed, plopping down on the bed. It would take quite a while for him to go to sleep today.

**At the same time, in a messy bookshop in Soho, COVID Lockdown, London 2020:**

The silence from the other end of the receiver dropped heavy in Aziraphale’s cake heavy stomach. His finger twirling the cord stopped mid-twist and the light flittering of his heart turned into a dull offbeat.

“Drat,” he breathed, unwinding himself from the phone and hanging up with a gentle thud. “Oh, drat. I’ve done it again.”

He stood there, fingers finding the edges of his waistcoat to play with instead of the cord he had been twirling. There’s bubbling in his stomach, the playful smile that had crawled on his face as he’d heard the voice of whom he missed terribly. The heart fluttering when Crowley said that he’d do bad if it weren’t that he worried humans would follow his lead, the goodness of the former demon filling him with Love and, well, love.

He had called with the hopes, rather, with the _intention_ of tempting the demon to go out and do _bad_ as to have a reason to go out and _thwart_ him. Not that they needed excuses to see each other anymore, they were on their _own_ side now, but they’d only had a few months together before they’d been separated by Pestilence’s bloody tantrum through the world at not having been invited to Armageddon.

When the announcement had come from leadership that citizens were expected to remained lockdown in their homes, Aziraphale had meant to extend his invitation to his dearest friend to remain at the bookshop with him. But the fear had gripped him and he’d just let Crowley get into the Bentley and drive off—the last time they’d seen each other in months.

And when Crowley had offered to ‘hunker down’ in the bookshop, his heart had soared, the sweetness of temptation lulling over him only to quickly be snapped by the bubbling fear of being watched, of being hunted.

So he did what he knew best, he pushed.

Aziraphale sighed, pulling the reading glasses of his nose and holding them.

“Cowardly ol’ bookworm,” he said, just an exhale. “Why can’t you just say you want your friend back? That you’re as bored as he is? That you miss him? That you—”

Instead of finishing his thought, he squeezed his eyes shut, spreading his essence and opening his eyes beyond the plane of the physical and into the metaphysical. _All_ his eyes opened and looking for any traces of sulfur or ozone, and didn’t find anything other than more of Pestilence’s fit.

They’d _been_ safe. Since the moment they’d returned from their botched executions they’re hadn’t been any hair, hide, of whiff of angels or demons in London. Nevertheless, old habits die hard, and Aziraphale was nothing if not a creature of habit.

The crippling silence of the bookshop, for once, made Aziraphale feel empty, like being in Heaven all over again.

He squared his shoulder, nose flaring with his sharp and decisive inhale, “Enough sniveling, Aziraphale. You are a warrior. Principality of the Eastern Gate. You can do this. Now, grab that phone, call that demon of yours and invite him to spend the rest of this blasted lockdown here,” then in with a shaky exhale added, “Oh, dear, I hope it’s not too late.”

**A Conversation Between an Angel in Soho and a Demon in Mayfair, COVID Lockdown, London 2020:**

Crowley kept turning between the sheets.

He’d started on the wall this time, thinking it’d be easier to work his way to the bed than away, but nothing seemed to be working. The sting of rejection still running through his body like a hellfire bath.

In the darkness behind his eyes, in his attempt to force sleep to overtake him, he made out an annoying buzz.

_Great_ , he thought, _the memory of good ol’ Beez has come to haunt me._

The buzz was steady, something shaking against him in the bed. It was then that he realized that it wasn’t his old boss, but rather the cell phone that had burrowed its way into his sheets.

“It can’t be,” he said, hope swelling in his wounded heart.

Still, he dove into the sheets, tearing them away in search for the sleek black phone. When he found it, it was the image of angel wings and the name Aziraphale that sent the hope from his heart, spiraling into the rest of his body.

He brought the phone up to his ear and answered, “Uh, yeah?”

_Smooth_.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s me, Aziraphale.”

A sigh, “We go through this every time, I _know_ it’s you, Aziraphale. I’ll always know it’s you.”

Silence, as Aziraphale’s heart melted at the tone of Crowley’s voice, “Ah, right, well. I’m so glad I caught you before you started your nap,” said Aziraphale, the nervousness in the angel’s voice agitating the fizzing in Crowley’s stomach.

“What is it now, Angel?” he asked, hoping it came off as casual rather than annoyed. “Did you need to question me about how I plan to nap until July?”

“Well, dear, that’s the thing, I was kind of—well, if it’s not so much of a bother—that is to say—”

Crowley groaned, “Spit it out, Aziraphale.”

“Move in with me!”

The silence that followed felt infinite.

It felt like the silence that stretched in that grain of time where they’d taken Adam’s hand. It felt like the span of their lives, of the promise of forever, of the promise of the end. It was so quiet, Crowley feared he might’ve accidentally stopped time again.

“Crowley? Are you there?”

He blinked back into existence as the hesitant voice from the other end of the line, forcing himself to speak, “Ngk, wot?”

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out so—pushy, so—well, like a proposition. I didn’t mean that you’d move in with me forever—”

_Ah, of course not_ , Crowley thought.

“—well, not at _this_ moment at least, I feel like that _at least_ warrants a more in depth conversation—”

“Wot?”

“—but rather, I was wondering if it was too late for me to accept your offer for you to come and spend this lockdown here in the bookshop…with…with me.”

It took the demon a couple of minutes to process what the angel had offered. This was an extended hand, the tilted champagne glass at the Ritz, the ‘our side’ that was promised after Armaged-didn’t. This was—too good to be true.

Aziraphale sighed, “I understand if you’ve changed your mind. Sleeping the time away would be great for you too. I should let you get to it.”

“No,” said Crowley, almost yelled it into the phone and he winced at how desperate he sounded. “What I mean is, yes. I—Az— _Angel_ , of course I’ll go if—well, if that’s truly what you want.”

“Oh, Crowley, it would mean the world to me. I—well, I hate to admit that though I’m glad there’s no one coming to browse my bookshelves, it does get rather lonely in this bookshop without you, and the thought of not getting to see you for two more months is almost unbearable,” Aziraphale stopped, then in a softer voice added. “We were supposed to be making our own side now.”

Crowley’s throat dried up, thoughts lighting up in his brain as the heat started to rise through his cold-blooded body.

“A—Aziraphale.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Then he added. “And I’ll bring that case I promised.”

“Ah, yes, well, tally ho and all that. The door will be open, dear.”

**A Bookshop in Soho, Late into the Night, COVID Lockdown, London 2020**

It had been a few hours since Crowley had arrived to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

As he’d been told, the door was open, it hadn’t ever been closed for him regardless, so he walked in with the case of vintage in one hand and his plant pet project curled into the bicep of his other arm. He took one whiff and caught the scent of every pastry Aziraphale had baked along with the smell of Marsala sauce, of oyster brine, of dates and cheeses.

It had been a few hours since a blushing Aziraphale, and a Crowley that refused to admit that was blushing, settled into the backroom of the bookshop and cracked open the first of the bottles.

Now, they were sufficiently sloshed enough to have unwound and forgotten the awkwardness of earlier, well, mostly.

“Admit it, angel,” Crowley said, sliding further down on the couch until almost halfway off the seat, “When you called the first time, you already were planning on inviting me over you just chickened out like a—like a chicken.”

Aziraphale sniffed in offence, “’M not a chicken, ‘m a—a _tempter_.”

“Oi, isn’t that my job?”

“Part of the whatsit—the deal—the orang—the arran—”

“Arrangement.”

“Gesundheit,” Aziraphale said. “Meant to tempt you over, you do bad, I do good and invite you over afterwards. But—y’re too soft now.”

“’M not soft, ‘m all pointy—angles, real dangerous snake me,” Crowley said.

“Not soft on the outside, d’nt think so t’least. Soft inside, gooey, d’nt want humans to get sick— _good_ demon. Missed you”

Crowley bit back a hiss and a whine behind the next sip of wine, “Missed you too, angel. Missed your halo, missed y’re voice. Just missed you. Stupid Pestilence.”

Aziraphale’s overly wide blue eyes blinked at him, “Y’missed me?”

“Course Angel, y’re my best friend ‘n I love you,” Crowley said, then the realization of what he’d said kicked in, as well as the widening of Aziraphale’s eyes. “Shit.”

He sobered up, dizzy at how quick the alcohol left his system and he jumped to his feet, “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Crowley.”

“Shit, angel, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to say that, I—just drunk. Didn’t think—”

“Crowley.”

“Should just head back to the flat, sleep ‘til July like I planned—”

“Crowley, don’t you dare leave me!”

The finality of Aziraphale’s tone froze Crowley in his stride. Aziraphale, now sober himself if the bottles around them had anything to say, moved until he was standing facing Crowley, who’d snapped his sunglasses on to hide his embarrassment.

Aziraphale stepped closer, close enough that he could almost see through the glasses and to the eyes he tried to hide, and the smile on his face made it even harder to look straight at the angel.

“My dearest,” said Aziraphale. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. And you definitely don’t have to leave. You’re my best friend, too.”

Crowley felt his heart both skip a beat at the admission, but also sink from it too.

“Oh.”

“But of course, I love you, too.”

“Y’re an angel, Angel, you love everyone and everything,” Crowley said, shuffling his feet.

A small snort escaped him, “We both know _that’s_ not true. But Crowley, I love you. We’re our own side now. You are my _world_. It’s why I couldn’t stand being in this bookshelf another day without you,” Aziraphale reached out and took Crowley’s hand, “It’s why I wanted to talk about you moving in. I mean, obviously you already have since you’ll be here for a few months until Pestilence’s rampage is over, but even beyond that I’d like you to stay.”

“Really?”

He _really_ hated how small he sounded, how weak.

“Really, my dear. If that’s what you’d like as well, of course. I’ve already been thinking of where we could put your plants and, of course there’s a bed upstairs in the flat if you choose to take that nap of yours and now I’ve discovered the joys of cooking so you’d never go hungry. And, well, I’d like to show you how much you mean to me, how much I _love_ you without being—well a chicken.”

Crowley sighed, “You’re not a chicken. You’ve been keeping us safe,” he squeezed the hand that held his. “I—I think I’d like staying here—beyond the lockdown. Make our side more official, more united.”

“And because you love me,” Aziraphale said, with a smug smile.

“Yes, suppose that, too,” he admitted, relishing Aziraphale’s satisfied wiggle with his own small smile.

“Excellent,” said Aziraphale, stepping up to press a feather-light kiss against Crowley’s cheek. “Come now, dear, it’s late and we’ve drunk enough. Lets get to bed, we’ve got a full day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Crowley let himself be dragged forward and towards the upstairs flat before asking, “Full day of nothing?”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks and turned an overly innocent look to the demon, “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. You _did_ say you’d come over and watch me eat cake, didn’t you? And who am I to deny you indulgences. Now come, a visual meal awaits you tomorrow so rest those eyes of yours.”

Wading through the incredulity of Aziraphale’s offer, Crowley couldn’t help teasing, “I already have a visual meal ahead of me.”

The angel gave another satisfied wiggle, “Cheeky. Now, c’mon, to bed you— _wily_ serpent.”

After all, it would be a long time until July and they had all the time to wait and all the world, their world, at their disposal.


End file.
